"No trouble?"
Temple smiled. "No trouble. Just a temporary discomfort."
"Dentist appointments can be rough."
She nodded and sipped her white wine. "So tell me about Chicago."
Matt shook his head, smiling. "Cold. Snow-choked. What the artists call 'unforgiving.' "
"You mean a demanding environment."
"This time, I demanded back."
"How so?"
"I saw it from a distance, for the first time. I'd avoided going back for years. Told myself it had been blighted by Effinger. But he was long gone, and all that was left were relatives and school-mates. And I realized that they were a blight too."
"I'm glad I just visited Aunt Kit. Going home for the holiday can be . . . wearing."
"You don't know what you started with that red Goodwill sofa, Temple. I thought the last thing I needed was some extravagant statement, but in Chicago I discovered that's exactly what everybody around me needed. My mother, my cousin Bo and his wife, their would-be punk-artist daughter Krystyna ... It was like 'Return to Elm Street,' only I was Freddy Krueger."
"You!"
"You've always seen me the way you wanted me to be, not the way I've seen myself. I was a freak. The last one in the family to enter the religious life. These people are descended from Polish immigrants. They live and breathe the Catholic religion and family values. And yet . . .
none of my contemporaries and none of their children have made any more commitment to religion than sending their kids to Catholic schools. Which are nowadays taught by laypeople mostly, not clergy.
"I was like the fall of the last knight in a game of chess. I expected to be ostracized. Instead, they were afraid of me, as if they had been found wanting, not me for leaving the priesthood. It was. . . weird. And my mother was even weirder."
"How?"
"I hadn't seen her from that distance before. So . . . beaten down. So self-shrinking. I discovered that the anger I thought I'd felt for Effinger really belonged to her."
"But.. . you said you'd learned so much in Chicago. You were so . . . optimistic when you called me in New York."
He nodded. " The Paradiso, but first the Inferno."
"I get the idea, but not the reference."
"Catholic poet. Dante. The so aptly named 'Divine Comedy.'"
Temple nodded.
"I had to go to the bottom of the well before I could bob to the surface again and see the sunlight. Speaking of 'Devine,' that isn't even my real father's name."
"You learned about your real father?"
"Not much. A one-night stand that began with a meeting at a church vigil stand. You know, racks of candles lit to a saint or the Virgin Mary. Or the Blue Mermaid. It's an old-fashioned, an old-country tradition, and the Polish parishes in Chicago cling to the something old, something Virgin Mary Blue."
"Matt. Maybe it's me or maybe it's the white wine, but I'm not following all of this."
He shook his head. "I think it's me, and the red wine. We always use it in the mass, for blood. Don't worry. The point is my mother was one of these foolish virgins schooled to be ignorant past the age of consent. She was nineteen. He was a Romeo with a Roman candle.
Bound for Vietnam, a volunteer lighting beeswax to the Virgin and meeting her incarnate in my mother, and leaving the aftertaste of New Testament shame, only no angel excused the carnal amid the spiritual. No Holy Ghost claimed fatherhood. Only Effinger, by default."
"Would you mind translating for an unbeliever?"
"You're no unbeliever, Temple. Quite the contrary."
Their soup and salad came, wafted down from above, like homely manna.
"It's simple," Matt said. "My mother was unwed and pregnant. A source of terrible shame in her community. When Effinger came along and saw her vulnerability, he offered to marry her.
Why not? She had a two-flat to rent and was willing to work, even if he wasn't. She . . . used to be good-looking before she tried to become invisible. I wasn't even in preschool. They hadn't heard of it in that neighborhood. Kin looked after kin, unless you were the kind of kin not spoken of. A bastard. My mother married to protect me from that label."
"Effinger was better than single parenthood?"
Matt's laugh was weary. He hadn't really done more than move his Caesar salad around, and Temple was finding even barley too tough to swallow.
"To my mother, in that old-time Catholic neighborhood. Yes. Apparently he became worse with time. And you were right."
"Me?"
"The real mystery, once you see and accept that my mother thought she was doing the best thing for me. She never had any illusions that it was the best thing for her. The real mystery is my natural father. He seemed to be from a Well-to-do family. He'd wandered into the Polish section that night on the eve of leaving for Vietnam. She said he could have been exempted, which I presume means he was a college student. But he thought it was his duty. Their attraction was instant. I guess it happens that way sometimes?" Temple nodded, aware of two times in her own life, neither over yet.
"He died over there. Later, some family lawyers came to see my mom and offered a . . .
settlement, I suppose. Either a lump sum or a support payment until I reached my majority. She took the lump sum, only in the form of a two-flat in the neighborhood of St. Stan's. She . ..
rooted us in the place that most denied us, for security's sake. Her house made her attractive to Effinger on-the-make, before he contracted gambling fever and Vegas dreams. And that was that. I grew up with lies and concealment and confusion and anger, and sought sense in God the Father. My mother paid her price and suffered in silence and finally grayed into aimless middle age. When I left the church, I left her lies to herself and to me. She's going to have to live for herself now. And I think she might finally be able to."
"Matt. That's a horrible story."
He grinned. "Isn't it? But it's the past. From here on in, it's all waiting to be rewritten."
"And that's what makes you feel optimistic?"
"That, and breaking with my mother's past. We've been at odds. I can understand why she did what she did, but I don't agree with it. She wanted me immured in the safety of church approval, the bastard made man of God. I think you're right; I think the story behind my real father is worth finding out. But first I've got to get free of my false father, Effinger, and I think I have."
Temple nodded, and leaned back as her soup was taken away and a large plate of fish placed before her.
"A very Christian dish, I guess," she noted mischievously.
"You're way ahead of me, as always."
"You give me way too much credit, as always."
"Anyway, that's what I feel like celebrating tonight. My freedom from the past, its lies and half-truths, its benign enslavement, its souvenirs like Effinger. There were so many things I thought I had to be; now there are things I've never dreamed of becoming. I'm not going to cut free all at once, but I think, I think I'm finally loose enough to be human again. I feel like I stand a prayer of having a relationship with a woman without miring it in theological debates. I'm on some sort of brink. I feel like I could fly and not dash my feet on the stones below. It's crazy. It's incredible. Let's toast it."
He lifted his glass of blood-red wine and Temple lifted her glass of pallid hue. Brims touched.
Chimed like New Year's bells in miniature.
*******************
"I don't know if we can make two more stops," Matt said when they left Gallagher's.
Temple, ever practical, checked her fragile watch face. "If we pace ourselves. It's just after eleven."
"So did my At Home in Illinois' story inspire you?"
"I'd sure like a line on those lawyers who bought your mother off."
"You think--?"
"For one thing, your natural father might not be dead at all."
Matt stopped in the concourse, frowning. He looked slightly tipsy, as she had never seen him. She wasn't sure whether it wa
s emotion or St. Emilion. It was one thing to have slain the evil father figure from his past; another to admit the possibility of a missing father in his future.
"The family lawyers told my mother he was dead. Vietnam."
Temple shrugged. "His family lawyers aren't her or your lawyers."
Matt, stunned silent by the possibility, finally shook his head as if renouncing Satan.
"Temple, sometimes your imagination runs in overdrive. My mother got a settlement. It's over.
And I've hunted missing father figures long enough."
He pulled out the package brochure. Subject closed. "Hamilton's next. For dessert and an after-dinner brandy. They do believe in mixing spirits, don't they?"
"Where's Hamilton's?"
"Upstairs. We'll have to work our way across the Central Park Casino to the Empire Lounge, then take the stairs or escalator up to Hamilton's."
"I vote for the escalator."
"Hard walking in those heels?"
"Hard walking in this swamp of spirituous liquors. Brandy? And it still won't be midnight?"
"We celebrate the New Year back at the Times Square Bar, with champagne cocktails."
"Ooh, my aching head. Put away your brochure, Robinson Crusoe; it isn't even Friday."
Matt took her arm as they threaded their way through the slot machines and their minions.
Temple couldn't object to the support. She'd thought her ten days in New York had been action-packed. Matt's journey from back-alley Las Vegas to secret-laden Chicago seemed the far more dangerous voyage.
The Empire Lounge was hard to miss with its huge rotating mirrored red apple over the stage. They headed in unison for the escalators, Temple leaping gingerly over the first step in her Midnight Louie high heels.
As they rose, the view grew more impressive. By the time they stood at the entrance to Hamilton's, they could oversee the entire first floor gaming area and the distant walls whose painted New York skyline was limned in sunset shades of rose and purple. Twilight time. Very romantic. Except that they reminded Temple of bruises. Beneath them twinkled the trees of Central Park.
As if heaven-sent, Big Band music swayed in the background. Could Guy Lombardo be far away?
A sign outside Hamilton's requested "appropriate attire" after eight p.m. Temple and Matt exchanged a glance. Could they be any more appropriate?
A maitre d' again accepted Matt's blue chit. They passed a black-and-red gift shop and a walk-in humidor oozing the odor of expensive cigars.
Another glance was exchanged.
Under their feet lay leopard-design carpeting, and black leather banquettes curled around black lacquer-and-chrome tables.
Art deco geometric fabric covered the central chairs; torcheres spiked the walls. Everything was dark and elegant, lit by champagne flutes of light. A soft blue haze draped the ambiance like a feather boa.
Once they were seated, a statuesque female in a slinky strapless gown slunk over with a selection of cigars. His and hers. Temple picked up the tabletop matchbook, whose motto was ITS'S ALWAYS MIDNIGHT AT HAMILTON'S.
They both shook their heads, shocked. Soon a decadent cheesecake dessert arrived, accompanied by brandy Alexanders.
"I don't get the dame with the stogies," Matt admitted.
"I think this is a 'cigar bar.' The latest thing on the Coasts."
"But women--?"
"Light up now, too, in trendy circles. Me, I think trying to act like a man is always dumb. I mean, mouth cancer isn't worth it."
"You do have a way of improving the appetite," Matt said, glancing down at his dessert.
"That's just Heart Attack City. Dive in."
Temple did. Her appetite had revived when faced with something smooth and creamy and sweet. The brandy Alexander was equally agreeable, and she'd had just enough liquor to numb the buzz saws of pain grinding at her face and jaw.
"You're enjoying this, really? Despite my personal recital?"
"Personal recitals are my favorite thing. And, yes, I am. This is the way the real New York should be: all fairyland and no hassle. We don't even have to catch a cab."
"True. But I don't know if I can take one more drink this evening. I thought I'd hit my quota during my Effinger chase."
Temple sipped the brandy Alexander, deciding a headache in the morning would be worth it.
And it was work keeping her mouth shut about Effinger's attack to save Matt's big evening of celebration and revelation.
As for telling him about Max . . . tomorrow was another day. Her fingers went to the black-cat pendant at her throat. She hated to return it.
"You haven't eaten too much tonight," Matt said.
Only then did she realize how closely he had been watching her.
"The dentist. Kind of yucky. But I've tasted everything, and loved every moment."
"Even the P.I. report."
"The best parts. I wish I knew what Molina was really going to do about Effinger, though."
"What can she do?"
"More than we might think."
"I wish you weren't so suspicious of her. She's really, well, I can't exactly say personable. She has integrity."
"Look what that got you."
He shrugged. "That's the past. I'm finally seeing beyond it. And what I see is--"
"Yes?"
"You."
Oh, my. For a moment Temple felt the room spin. She wasn't sure if she was drinking because she was happy, or because she was not happy. The line was very fine between sober and tipsy, between optimism and despair.
She checked her watch, then changed the subject, which was her.
"Eleven-thirty. Do we need to decamp back to the Times Square Bar?"
"Probably. This cigar smoke is going to get to me soon anyway."
They wandered out of Hamilton's trendy haze, overlooking the ersatz New York below.
Temple was suddenly tired, dispirited, guilty with the weight of too much not said.
Matt took her elbow to guide her through the frenetic casino, but her real escort was dread.
She pictured telling him the truth about Max and her in his apartment with the alien red sofa front and center. Would he go berserk, as he had once when he had less to lose, both in terms of furniture and expectations? How far had he come since Chicago? Enough to expect an intimate end to an extravagant evening?
When should she say it? What should she say?
The bright red apple hung poised over the New Year's revelers as the Big Band sound lured celebrants onto the dance floor. Matt and Temple were seated at a lilliputian excuse of a table for two, and champagne cocktails in narrow flutes were placed before them. The last libation on the evening's ticket.
They sat silent, not willing to compete with the swelling, seductive music, watching couples swing-dance.
The clock ticked toward midnight, and Temple's Midnight Louie glass slippers would not melt, nor would the Storm in the parking lot turn into a pumpkin, although its owner might be reenvisioned as a rat if the whole truth were known. . . .
"It's almost midnight," Matt said, standing and leaning over her.
He offered her a hand. "I think I can manage to shuffle through Auld Lang Syne.' "
It was an offer she couldn't refuse.
Temple stood, aware of a subtle tremor in her frame: fatigue and something else.
They went to the edge of the crowded floor, and then the artificial blue-black sky of New York-New York was the desert's impenetrable dome again, and the music came small and wee from a tape deck and their feet moved like scorpions slow-dancing on the sands of time.
The orchestra segued into "Auld Lang Syne," the boozy, maudlin rhythms whose words everybody knew, and everybody around them was singing and so were they, Temple just humming.
Midnight was announced with a dramatic gong sounding for twelve long drawn-out moments.
And Matt kissed her, a wonderful, searingly enthusiastic kiss on the mouth that hurt like hell, hurt almost as much as half-truths and lies. Bloo
dy lies.
Temple broke away too late and headed for the table, blinded by her contact lenses.
Matt followed. Shocked. Concerned. Contrite. All the wrong, wrong things.
"Temple."
The bells still rang, and around them people celebrated with bad booze and good music as they always did.
He put a hand to his lips. "Did I do that?"
"No!" She scooped some ice out of the water goblet she'd ordered to dilute the effect of all those varied drinks, and wrapped the inexcusably tiny cocktail napkin around it, then pressed it to the inside of her cheek.
"The dentist?" He was using his own napkin to dab at the blood on his lips.
"Yes. The dentist." She moved the ice to the ache on her cheek, unsure what would stop the bleeding, once started.
Matt was watching her with the helpless inaction of the onlooker. "Do you want to visit the ladies room? Or ... I'm sure they have some sort of first-aid station here."
"I'm fine. Just give me a minute."
He frowned. "What have you got on your face?"
He was staring at her left cheekbone and eye. She knew instantly the soggy napkin had smeared the makeup.
She didn't know whether he read the answer to his question in her eyes, or in his own memories of the past, but his face hardened. She didn't know which devastated him more, the truth he finally saw for himself, or the liar he finally saw in her.
Chapter 7
A Cup of Kindness Yet
Temple waited alone under the merciless neon glare of New York- New York's glitzy urban porte cochere, longing for sunglasses. It felt every minute of almost one o'clock in the morning.
She thought people kept looking at her, but maybe the drawing card wasn't her slightly cracked facial facade. Maybe it was her festively glittering dress and shoes. Still, she wished for the concealing offices of her usual eyeglass frames. Wearing contact lenses made her feel exposed. It didn't help that the new contacts, not to mention the blinding illumination all around her, made her eyes tear. She might have matched the surrounding glitz, but she felt like a Black Hole sucking all that light and energy into some vast, hidden and concentrated emptiness.
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